


Mr Lascelles's new valet fails to live up to his standards

by Ilthit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Smut, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lascelles offers Drawlight temporary sanctuary, which turns into a booty call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr Lascelles's new valet fails to live up to his standards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syberiad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syberiad/gifts).



> This is almost completely built out of ideas that grew out of a Tumblr RP, and out of musings on Lascelles's potential sexual behaviour.
> 
> I continue to be deeply ashamed of myself.

Crawford was new and Henry had no time or inclination to be training him at present, so he had instructed his valet to come only when he was rung for. Anticipating orders was an advanced skill. Still it was a queer thing to arrive home to a dark house, hang up his own coat, and light his own candle. It reminded Henry of his brief stay at Eton, where even the wealthiest of boys slept in a room with four others and had to fold his own clothes. It was just as well, since Henry was often in a foul mood on arriving home, sick of the sight of other human beings, and ready for a quiet evening of looking through letters and articles for _The Friends_.

It was a surprise, therefore, when his carriage drew up and he saw his drawing-room window lit up. Crawford opened the door almost before Henry had alighted and bowed twice before resolving to speak up. The man was as graceless and spineless as his predecessor. Henry sighed. “Please tell me it isn't my cousin Mannering and his family.”

“No, sir,” said Crawford. “It is Mr Drawlight. I tried to tell him, sir...”

“You tried to tell him what?”

“That you do not... That is... that he would be waiting for you in vain, sir...”

“Don't be an idiot, Crawford. He hasn't waited in vain, for here I am. At least tell me you offered him a drink?”

Crawford glanced up at him, and then down to his shoes. He was a small and rotund man of jolly looks, now cast down in fear, and still quite young. Henry really did have to gather the energy to instruct him properly one of these days. “The Mannerings of the world, Crawford, you discourage by leaving them thirsty and cold. Is Mr Drawlight a Mannering?”

“No, sir?”

“No. You will remember next time. Bring a pitcher of Madeira and two glasses, and then disappear.”

“Yes, sir.”

He found Drawlight standing bright and straight in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back, which meant that he had heard Henry's footsteps in the hall, and stopped whatever he might have been doing to amuse himself. No matter. Henry had long since decided that keeping secrets from Christopher Drawlight was a pointless exercise. Not only would he find it out in the end, but no-one would believe him when he passed it on.

“There you are, Henry!” Drawlight cried and offered both of his hands to his host. “I have been waiting for _hours_.”

“Have you, indeed?” said Henry as he took the small man's perfectly manicured hands in his own. “Which is it this time? Your landlord, a debtor, or some furious cuckolded lady threatening you with a dustpan?”

Drawlight shuddered slightly and withdrew his hands. “Do not remind me about Mrs G---. I had no idea she'd resort to such extremes. That waistcoat was never the same again!”

Henry considered him. Drawlight pouted very prettily, but offered no more information at present. “Will you stay for dinner? I have ordered it at eleven.”

Drawlight's face broke into smiles. “I would be delighted.”

A knock on the door cut off Henry's reply. The Madeira was served with exemplary promptitude. Crawford had, at least, mastered the art of disappearing.

They each downed a glass. Henry refilled both and sat on the sopha, patting the seat next to him. “So,” said Drawlight, dropping onto the sopha and crossing his finely stockinged legs, “who is Maria Bullworth?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hers was the only letter on your tray that wasn't boring.”

“I see you have given up pretending you don't read my mail.”

Drawlight shrugged and smiled.

“Maria Bullworth,” said Henry, “is a charming young lady who for the sake of wealth and propriety married against her inclination. We have been friends for a while. She plays the piano, speaks French tolerably well, and can tie a ribbon into a bow with her tongue.”

“ _I_ could do that,” said Drawlight, a little wounded. “I'm sure I could, with a little practice.”

“She also has an unfortunate taste for crimson gowns and pearl necklaces, neither of which suits a young woman, especially one of her colouring. Dark crimson really only becomes a person with black hair.” He reached out to play with a lock of Drawlight's, which had been carefully curled and combed over his cheek. “Her skin is white, but pearls require a complexion with some colour in it.” He traced a fingertip around Drawlight's ear.

“Ah!” said Drawlight, his smile now tinged with genuine pleasure. Henry found himself answering it with a close-lipped one of his own, which he hid by taking another sip of his drink.

“We have nearly two hours' time before dinner. Shall we go upstairs?”

 

The bedroom was done in a darker shade of the soft blue that had been in fashion twenty years ago, accented with oak and white, which gave a very pleasing effect as the light fell upon it. Henry lit the candles around the room one by one. Drawlight, as was his habit, walked around touching every pane and picking up every bottle and pen and picture frame as if he had never seen them before. Henry set his drink down on the bedside table, shrugged off his jacket and lay it over the back of the chair by the writing desk below a simple gilded mirror on the wall. He pulled open the drawer.

“It was quite simply the most ridiculous thing,” said Drawlight, inspecting a curtain. “Me, fight a duel! With what, I asked him. With guns, said he. As if I was a soldier who goes about with a gun in his boot!”

“You do own a gun,” said Henry absent-mindedly. From the drawer, he lifted a long string of pearls, which glowed equal parts golden and pale in the half-light. “You won it from Captain Rawlins and kept it for desperate times.”

Drawlight waved a hand. “I left his friends to persuade him to give the idea up.”

“While you found another place to be.”

“Well, of course. You don't mind, do you, Henry?”

“Try this on.” He held out the string of pearls. “I would tell you how I come to have one, but it would involve besmirching a lady's good name.”

“Ooh, which lady?”

“Later. Please.” Henry crossed over to Drawlight and held the pearls up against his cheek. The soft glow of candlelight reflecting off the pearls, held against just the right tint of colour on a handsome face - the sight began to move his mind to a calmer place. The noise and dirt of the city, the suffocating stillness of Mr Norrell's study, the ache in his shoulders and the frustration of having to sit across from Mr Strange at every interview with his principal, all began to fall away. Simply because of a proper harmony of colour and shape! Really, Drawlight made too much of a fuss about those eyes of his; they were hardly his only good quality.

“Oh, you say later, as if I would forget,” Drawlight said, reached up and began to undo Henry's neck-cloth.

Henry looped the pearls around the small man's neck. They fell rattling against his lapels and buttons. He made disgusted noise. “Never mind undressing _me_. You are wearing far too many layers. Let me see your skin.”

Drawlight stepped back with a coy look and stripped off his peacock-blue jacket. The waistcoat underneath was demure by comparison, though finely patterned with faint shapes of leaves, and of course decorated with his ever-present fob and chain. The shirt under that was one of Henry's old ones, shortened at the sleeves – he recognized the bloodstains on the midsection – but under _that_...

Henry pulled off his neckcloth and stepped forward, backing Drawlight towards the bed. “Everything but the pearls, if you please.”

Drawlight managed to undo his breeches before his calves hit the bed and he fell back, giggling. Henry climbed in after him and kissed him once, slow and open, before sitting up and dragging his breeches off the rest of the way. Drawlight's fine polished shoes clattered on to the floor.

Henry settled on his side with a satisfied sigh. The fashion was for simple jewelry, but among Mrs S---'s many extravagances had been a fondness for an excess of pearls, and so the rope looped twice around Drawlight's neck before falling across his chest. Henry played with it, and his hand cast dark shadows over Drawlight's narrow chest. “I should hire someone to paint your portrait like this. A student of Rembrandt or Caravaggio... One who understands light and colour.”

Drawlight stretched happily. “Would you have me hung in a portrait gallery, Henry? But a nude? What a waste! You should have me painted in the double-breasted maroon coat. Didn't you say red suits my hair?”

“You would not hang in a portrait gallery. It would be for my eyes only.” _Unlike you_. He leaned down to nuzzle Drawlight's neck, right above the pearls, along the length of Drawlight's jugular. This late in the day, he could feel the light stubble on the young man's cheek, but his scent of crushed roses was only a hint of a memory. Both of these facts Henry found very pleasing, as did his prick, which was making its lazy way towards erection. He ran a hand down Drawlight's chest and across his stomach to the rough curls below, where he paused.

Drawlight watched him with lips slightly parted in a smile, flaunting his lashes – but, by God, they were something to be proud of. Henry had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that he was more aroused than his partner. That would never do.

He moved up to kiss Drawlight again, somewhat more forcefully this time, and was accepted with an infuriating indifference. But then the man responded best to a certain strictness, didn't he? Well, that could be arranged.

Henry rolled on top of Drawlight, dragging his legs up around himself, and ground his clothed hips down on his. His nails left red marks on Drawlight's buttocks, and there, finally, was a gratifying moan. Henry moved down for another open kiss, holding Drawlight's head in place with one hand so he could not escape his mouth. The man melted under him, his hands coming up to grasp Henry's head and waist.

“There's my little slut,” said Henry with a smile. “I thought you'd grown tired of me.”

“Well, and whose fault is that?” exclaimed Drawlight. “If I let you alone you'd just stare at me all night.”

Henry slapped Drawlight's thigh, hard. “Such a glutton, Christopher. Some men like to savour their dishes.”

“Not to the point where they grow cold, surely.”

“I ought to ram my cock down your throat and call it a day.” Drawlight's breathing picked up. “Not only would the matter be speedily concluded, I wouldn't have to listen to your back-talk.”

“Would you?” said Drawlight with a hopeful look.

“No,” said Henry, and sat up to undo his waistcoat. “You will keep your legs spread and take what I choose to give you. Understood?”

“Perfectly,” squeaked Drawlight.

“Good man.” He threw off his waistcoat and undid the waist of his breeches. No need to undress all the way. The nights were getting long, the fire hadn't been lit, and so what if his shirt became a little soiled? The next time he intended to dress it would be for dinner. He spit in his hand, used his other to push Drawlight's knee up to his chest, and reached between Drawlight's legs.

In the half-light the best he could do was feel his familiar way to Drawlight's hole, which he lathered with his spit enough to test it with a finger. It yielded with practiced ease, but Henry fucked it with two fingers anyway, setting up a lazy but relentless rhythm. Drawlight's cock lay against his belly, still softer than Henry would have liked. He frowned. “Tell me you like that.”

“I like it, Henry,” said Drawlight, biting his lip and pushing his hips down. “I should like a little more of it.”

Henry clucked his tongue. “What did I tell you?”

“Please, Henry.”

“ _No_.” He leaned down and gave into the temptation to bite that pristine skin, right where the shoulder meets the neck. The pearls shifted and clinked between them. Drawlight cried out and threw his head back, rutting against Henry's hand.

Henry sat up and slowed down again, taking his fingers almost completely out before plunging them in again. Drawlight moaned in frustration, but there – his prick was hard enough to be worthy of attention now, and Henry's own throbbed in response. He spit in his free hand and took hold of Drawlight, letting that pretty circumcised prick slip smoothly in his fist. Drawlight was wanton now, clutching at Henry's arms and the covers alternatively and shoving his hips at him. The best paintings do not simply show a lovely person in repose, gazing calmly out at you with their hands crossed. They should clutch at their chest, claw at their attackers, bend and shove and sweat and cry.

Drawlight did.

“Henry! Don't be cruel! Fuck me, please!”

“Hmm. All right.” Henry slipped out his fingers and wiped them on his breeches, then undid them the rest of the way and guided his prick to its destination. He slid in with a grunt of satisfaction.

It was the same every time – that nameless familiar bliss of sheathing himself in warm and eager flesh. He pulled Drawlight's hips tight against himself and just stayed for a moment, enjoying the press of him around his prick.

“Henryyyy,” Drawlight complained.

Henry thrust once, savouring each inch. He reached for his glass at the bedside table and took a sip before the second thrust. “Don't fret, Christopher, you're doing splendidly,” he told Drawlight, replaced his glass with some care so it wouldn't spill, and started to fuck the man hard.

Drawlight grabbed and clutched at him as if didn't know which part of him to hang on to, so Henry caught both his wrists in one hand and held them down against the covers, over his head. He closed his other one on Drawlight's prick again, stroking slowly out of beat with his thrusts.

“Oh God, Henry!”

“Whenever... you're ready,” said Henry, gasping at the pleasure and the exercise.

“Fuck, Henry, fuck me, you're _bad_ , you're so--”

“Tell me.”

“It's so good, Henry, I'm...”

“Not tired of me yet?”

“Oh, God!” Drawlight's slight frame shivered and went taut, bowed between Henry and the bed, and warm come over his stomach and Henry's fist. His mouth fell open in a terrible ecstacy.

A soft cry escaped Henry at the sight, but he stilled and waited while Drawlight convulsed and spent, before picking up again, this time at his own pace. Drawlight lay limp and pliant beneath him, too well satisfied to do much more than murmur encouragement. Henry took his pleasure the way he liked it – slow, soft and warm, like a hot bath or a gentle twilight, a hedonistic little twist of pleasure that left him, not wrecked or ruined, but tingling with a satisfied pleasure.

He patted Drawlight's thigh affectionately and rolled off. His handkerchief was in his jacket pocket by the desk, but his shirt was soiled, so he used I to clean himself up and tossed it aside. The room wasn't as cold as he'd imagined; exercise, at any rate, kept one warm. Drawlight, however, was shivering in his pearls. The clock showed ten.

Henry got himself a new shirt. The breeches would do – it would be only the two of them for dinner, after all. He was contemplating a choice between a black and a blue jacket when there was a knock on the door.

Henry glanced at Drawlight, who had got himself into socks and a shirt, but still had very much the disheveled look of a man recently compromised. The exchanged a look.

Henry went to the door and opened it ajar. “I have come to dress you for dinner, sir,” said Crawford.

“Crawford,” said Henry to the man standing meekly outside his door, “you're fired.”

 

 


End file.
